


Wolfish

by Femme (femmequixotic), noeon (noe)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Deathly Hallows AU, Draco as Little Red Riding Hood, Fairy Tale Retellings, Hogwarts Seventh Year, M/M, Not Canon Compliant - Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-19
Updated: 2014-11-19
Packaged: 2018-02-26 07:55:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2644109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/femmequixotic/pseuds/Femme, https://archiveofourown.org/users/noe/pseuds/noeon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With wolves surrounding him, Draco seeks safe haven. But as his godfather warns him, wolves come in many forms.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wolfish

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gracerene](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gracerene/gifts).



> Written for the lovely gracerene, on the anniversary of her birth. We're so very glad to be with you in fandom, dear!
> 
> Some dialogue/action has been taken from the Malfoy Manor chapter of Deathly Hallows, with no commercial purpose, just a wish to acknowledge canon while twisting it as well. :)

The Forest of Dean is dark and deep and dreary. Ancient oaks--thick, gnarled, and oh-so-very English--stretch high up, their wide branches brushing the sky, weaving together to form a thick canopy that has shielded the forest since long before the Romans set foot on this small island with their clanking swords and their heavy iron shields effective at blocking Druidic spells.

Draco walks the forest’s hidden paths, surefooted and steady, dried leaves crunching softly beneath his boots. Moonlight filters through the bare branches, a cold grey speckle against the shadowed forest floor. His fingers brush the trunk of a sweet chestnut; its bark is cool and rough against his skin. He remembers late afternoon walks through this forest with his godfather during other Christmas hols, stopping to rest against this tree's twisted trunk and to gather the chestnuts fallen from its gnarled branches. With a flick of his wand, Severus had peeled the skins and roasted the nuts, handing them to Draco only when they’d cooled. 

Winter is cold and foreboding this year.

It was in these woods Severus told Draco the old stories. Of Hafren, later called Sabrina, a princess who’d drowned in the River Severn in the days when its banks had brushed the forest itself. Of Offa’s Dyke, built by a to mark the boundary of Mercia and Wales. Of Septimus Severus, the great hope of Rome, born in North Africa, and the only emperor to die in York.

And deeper still, at the heart of the forest, he’d whispered the darker tales. Older than the Romans. Older than the Druids, even. Of the Green Man and of the Horned King. Of blood and war and sacrifice. Of the sons of Don and their battle against the Lord of Annwn, of how Gwydion himself had enchanted these very trees surrounding them into an army to face the soulless warriors and growling wolves of the Underworld. 

_Beware the beasts in the forest_ , Severus had said softly, his fingers brushing his left sleeve as he’d stared out across the shadows at a doe standing between two thick oak trees. Only when it bounded gracefully away did he look back at Draco. _The wolves will steal your soul._

But it’s not a beast Draco’s in search of. Not tonight. 

Not ever.

His scarlet cloak billows out behind him as he runs.

***

Severus is with him when the owl arrives.

Draco knows whom it’s from. _One hour,_ the note says, and a small key falls from the parchment onto Draco’s palm. He can feel that familiar magic pulsing in the slick iron, shivering across his fingertips the way it had when he’d touched his lover's warm skin.

He looks at Severus, turning to lean against the terrace’s stone restraining wall. Lights shine from the Manor windows above them, and a cold breeze stirs, ruffling his godfather’s lank hair and sending the fading scent of the last of the autumn roses drifting across the gardens. 

_Be careful, Draco,_ is all that Severus says. His hands rest on the wall, his potion-stained fingers long and pale in the moonlight. _Wolves come in many forms._

Draco watches him walk back between the tall paned doors before he looks back down at the key in his hand. He can almost feel the brush of soft lips against his, the weight of a warm body pressing him into a hard mattress, the touch of a palm as it settles on his bare hip. His heart thuds softly, his throat tightens. 

The laughter of the Death Eaters rings from inside, his aunt’s shrill trill rising madly above them all. 

He shivers. 

Tomorrow he’ll return to Hogwarts with Severus for the start of the term. But tonight....

His fingers close over the iron key.

_One hour._

***

The elves prepare a hamper of food. Draco hooks it over one arm as he slides into his woollen cloak, the new one his mother brought back from Twilfit and Tattings as his Christmas present. Dark blood-red with black frogging and a deep hood meant for Russia’s snowy winters. There’s been talk of sending him to Durmstrang after Christmas, or at least his mother has been begging his father to let him go, to have him escape the coils of the Dark Lord’s inner circle.

But Lucius is too drunk and too frightened to defy his Lordship. This Draco knows well. He’ll have to remain at Hogwarts until the bitter end, and God help him if he lives through what’s coming. 

Tonight, however, Draco’s escaping, if only for a few hours. 

He’s nearly through the front door when a slurred voice stops him. “Where do you think you’re off to?” Yaxley leans against the wide hearth, a half-empty bottle of Lucius’s best firewhisky in his hand. 

Draco looks back, his hand on the doorknob. “My grandmother’s,” he says, and the lie slips easily from his tongue. He doesn’t look away. Severus has taught him that much. If you’re going to tell an untruth, never act as if you’re doing so. He can feel the steady slip of seconds away. Still, he doesn’t rush. “I’ll return shortly.”

Yaxley’s too pissed to truly care. He shrugs and lifts the bottle to his mouth. “Midnight,” he says. “Night wards go up.” 

Draco just nods. He’ll be locked out if he’s not back by then. 

The dark oak door closes behind him, and he’s hurrying down the walk, the key clenched tight in his fist.

He barely makes it through the gate before he feels the tug of magic that spirits him away.

***

Deeper into the forest Draco runs.

A boar bounds past him, crashing through the underbrush, and Draco pulls out his wand, his heart pounding. It’s dark here and nearly silent. 

For a moment, Draco wonders if this is a trap, if His Lordship will step from behind a tree, his face twisted in the grimace of a smile, the vicious snake draped heavily across his shoulders. Nagini watches everything and everyone, after all, and there are moments Draco’s certain she can see into the very depths of his soul.

The crack of a twig brings Draco up short. 

He steps backward, his wand at the ready, his breath coming in soft, short huffs, wisps of white in the cold air. He pivots, his eyes searching the darkness. Someone’s there. 

Watching.

“Show yourself,” he snaps, and he can feel the accelerated thud of his pulse. He takes another step back. His wand trembles slightly. 

The forest is still. Quiet.

Draco gasps when a hand grips his arm, pulling him around. Shadows hide a pale face, nearly obscuring the glint of his glasses in the moonlight.

They look at each other, then Draco says, “Harry,” and he reaches for him, the hood of his red, red cloak falling back on his shoulders as he pulls Harry into a kiss.

He’d almost forgotten what Harry tastes like, how it feels to have Harry’s lips against his, rough and eager and _wanting_ like this. 

“Oh,” Draco says against Harry’s mouth, and the hamper drops to the ground as he slides his hands over Harry’s shoulders, over the heavy black cloak wool edged with wolf fur Draco had stolen from the forgotten depths of his father's wardrobe room and brought to Harry the last time they'd met.

Harry’s palms settle on Draco's hips, heavy and warm, and Draco leans against him, pressing his face into the curve of Harry’s throat. His fingers tangle in the softness of Harry’s shaggy, dark hair.

They stand silently for a long moment, their bodies swaying together, and then, reluctantly pulling away, Harry takes Draco’s hand. Draco has only enough time to scoop up the hamper before Harry’s leading him through the forest to a small clearing. 

“Granger," Draco says, but Harry stops him with a kiss.

“She'll keep watch tonight." Harry’s knuckles brush Draco’s jaw, and Draco can’t stop the shiver that ripples through him. He hears the howl of a wolf in the distance. Greyback and the Snatchers are prowling, he knows. “Please,” Harry says quietly. “I’ve been dreaming of you.”

Draco draws in a shaky breath. “I brought food,” is all he can think to say. “I didn’t know if you’d eaten, being a fugitive from justice and all.”

Harry’s smile is soft. “Thank you.” He takes the hamper, heavy with greasepaper-wrapped beef sandwiches and chilled bottles of pumpkin juice.

Draco lets Harry lead him through the wards. They sting lightly against his skin, and then Draco can see the tiny tent.

Granger passes them, her wand lighting the path at her feet. She looks tired and haggard, but when Harry hands her the hamper of food, she stops and glances back at Draco, hesitating.

"No spells, poisons or potions," he says wearily. He wonders how long it will take Granger to trust him. Perhaps never, he suspects. "Feel free to check." He knows she will; she'd be a fool not to.

"Thank you," she says after a moment, and the light from her Lumos casts shadows across her too-thin face. "One gets tired of nicking crisps and Fantas from the Eskimarket in Coleford."

Draco has no idea what any of that is--well, with the exception of crisps. He's developed a taste for Walker's cheese and onion; Justin Finch-Fletchley's mother sends him bags of the brilliant little bastards each week, which he and Longbottom pass around during the hidden training sessions for the ragtag Dumbledore's Army to which Draco slips off whenever he can ditch Crabbe and Goyle. Blaise is always there, one step behind Ginny Weasley at all times. 

Granger touches Draco's arm lightly, a quick squeeze that almost startles him. She glances back at Harry. "If you need me--"

"I'll send up sparks," Harry says with a small smile. "And you'll be just outside the wards. I know."

She nods, then glances back over at Draco. She fishes two sandwiches from the hamper and hands them to him. "For later," she says. Her mouth quirks to one side. "I suspect you'll need food."

Draco feels his face heat. "Granger,” he says again, but she's gone, the wards whispering shut behind her thin body. At least Weasley's not here. Draco'd suffered through glowers and glares that were nearly Severus-worthy from the Weasel every time he'd visited Harry in Grimmauld Place. Draco'd grown used to coming out of Harry's room every morning only to be pinned against the flocked velvet wallpaper of the hallway, Weasley's elbow in his throat, spittle hitting his cheeks as Weasley demanded to know when Draco was going to turn on them.

As if he would. 

"Come on." Harry lifts up the tent flap and then they’re inside, and Harry’s fingers are undoing the clasp of Draco’s cloak, letting it fall to the floor with a soft whisper of wool, and when he leans in again, fingers twisting in Draco’s shirt, his mouth claiming Draco's, Draco can’t help but remember the desperation of their first kiss last school year, up against the wall in the corridor outside of the Room of Hidden Things.

They stumble against a table, knocking a stack of papers across the floor. It doesn’t matter. Draco lifts himself onto it, dropping the paper-wrapped sandwiches next to him and spreading his legs so he can pull Harry closer as they kiss, all teeth and tongue and whispered gasps. His fingers find the clasp of Harry's cloak and it slides off his shoulders with a soft whisper of wool against Harry's thick, slightly dingy Aran jumper.

And then Harry’s between Draco’s thighs, and his hands are beneath Draco’s shirt, and it’s all Draco can do to keep from crying out as Harry pushes him back against the wooden tabletop, his mouth trailing down the heated skin of Draco’s chest as he unbuttons Draco’s shirt. 

It’s over too quickly, ragged breath and desperate rutting, fingers digging into shoulders and hips, mouths swollen from bites and kisses. 

Afterwards, they lie on the table twined together, their feet hanging from the end. 

Harry touches Draco’s face gently, his fingertips feather-light as they slip across Draco’s cheek. His glasses are askew, his hair rumpled and messy. Draco doesn’t think he’s seen him more gorgeous. Harry smiles at him, that slow, soft curve of his mouth that makes Draco’s breath catch. “How did you get away, love?”

Draco laughs and turns his head to kiss Harry’s fingertips. “I told them I was visiting my grandmother.”

Harry smiles again as he sits up, and when he holds his hand out to Draco, Draco takes it. “I should hope your grandmother wouldn’t do this,” he says and he pulls Draco from the table, gently stripping him of his clothing before he leads him to the small camp bed, transfigured to hold them both and spelled to combat the danger of upending.

Draco’s quite certain she never would.

***

“How do you know I won’t betray you?" Draco whispers into Harry’s shoulder afterwards, as Harry held him close, close enough to hear his steady heartbeat. The red cloak is wrapped around them both, the wool soft and warm against Draco's bare skin.

“The wards won't let anyone through who wants to hurt me. Hermione made certain of that.” Harry buries his nose in Draco’s hair. “You won’t hurt me. It's why she gives us time alone.”

Draco loves the feel of Harry's breath against his jaw. He lets his fingertips graze the curve of Harry's shoulder. "What if I do?"

"You won't." Harry leans over him. His dark hair falls into his eyes, so green and bright without the smudged lenses of his glasses dulling them. Harry's mouth brushes Draco's. "I trust you."

That may not be the best course of action, Draco thinks, and then Harry is kissing him again, pressing him into the lumpy mattress. 

He never wants to leave.

***

Draco makes it back to the Manor minutes before the night wards go up.

Only Severus notices the mud and dried leaves clinging to the hem of his cloak, but he says nothing as he watches Draco climb the stairs to his room. 

Draco closes the door behind him and sinks to the floor, his shaking hands unclasping the black hooks at his throat. The red wool pools around him, spreading across the shining teak floor, as scarlet as blood in the bright moonlight.

***

The wolves come, so very many wolves. Severus begins to lose control of the school; the cruel Carrows roam its corridors, wands drawn, eager to punish, to hurt, to devastate. Draco stops going to training sessions. He's being watched far too closely. Once, on a snowy Hogsmeade afternoon, he slips out to see Harry in the forest again, Apparating from the edges of the village. Weasley's back, but he's silent when he sees Draco, giving him a curt nod before he follows Granger out of the tent.

Harry and Draco sprawl across the cot for hours, kissing, touching, whispering. When Harry starts to tell Draco what he plans to do, Draco stops him, a finger on his lips. "Don't," Draco says, his throat tight. "If they torture me, I don't want to know."

The waxed ivory cotton slope of the tent above them is warmed by the late afternoon sun. Harry draws in a ragged breath, and he presses his face against Draco's shoulder. "Sometimes I don't think I'll live through this," he murmurs, and Draco knows the possibility of this is high. The entire Ministry is looking for Harry Potter. If they find Harry, his Lordship will kill him on the spot. 

"You'll live," Draco says fiercely. He pulls Harry against him, his hands tight on Harry's back. "I won't let you not." He feels, rather than hears, the gentle puff of Harry's laugh against his cheek. 

Harry rolls onto his back, pulling Draco over him. "Is that a promise?"

"A vow." Draco looks down at Harry, and Harry's face changes. Softens. His fingertips brush Draco's jaw. 

"Draco."

"I mean it," Draco says, and his whole body trembles with the force of his intent. The warmth of magic twists across his skin, and he grips Harry's hand. A wash of silvery-white light rolls from his fingers, spreading over Harry's golden skin. Harry doesn't seem to notice. "You'll live." Draco's voice is low and vehement. 

Harry nods and rubs a thumb over Draco's knuckle. "I will," he says, and for the first time all afternoon, he smiles. "For you."

Draco can't stop the wave of fear that crashes through him.

***

"The Carrows were looking for you," Ginny Weasley whispers at Draco from across the corridor.

He stops suddenly, nearly knocking over a Hufflepuff second-year in the process. "When?" Pansy's watching him from the doorway of the Great Hall, her eyes narrowed. Draco's been so careful to keep away from the Gryffindors. Even Blaise has been avoiding his girlfriend, seeing Ginny only when they can both slip away to the Room of Requirement late in the evening when everyone else is ensconced in the library, revising or merely avoiding the Carrows and their surprise visits to the various common rooms. They wouldn't dare set foot in the library, however. Draco's heard they're still terrified of Pince. He doesn't entirely blame them, to be honest.

"This afternoon." Ginny glances towards Pansy. None of the other Slytherins know she's dating Blaise. Everyone holds their secrets close to their chests this term. Draco watches McGonagall descend the staircase, regal as always. Her gaze meets his, then slides away. He feels a prickle of anger tensing his shoulders. If she knew where he'd been she wouldn't be so dismissive of him. 

Ginny grabs his arm, and Draco jerks, pulling away. "What are you doing?" he asks quietly, harshly. He frowns at her, making certain he curls his lip just so. Pansy's still watching, after all.

Her lips thin. She tosses her ginger hair, following his lead. A third-year Slytherin walks past, eyeing them both. "If you're going to be a complete tosser, Malfoy..." She lowers her voice. "Blaise told them he thought you left Hogsmeade early for a meeting with Snape. The bastard'll cover for you, won't he?"

Draco sincerely hopes so. "Thanks," he murmurs, and then he steps away, letting his sneer fall into place. "Don't ask me again, Weaselette." His voice rings across the hall. He's fairly certain he doesn't imagine the flash of annoyance in her eyes as she whirls away into the throng of students heading towards dinner. 

"What was that about?" Pansy asks when he reaches her. 

Draco shrugs. "The usual. Trying to curry favor to keep one of her precious Gryffindors away from the Carrows."

Pansy's face sours. "Not likely." She quirks an eyebrow at him as she slips her arm beneath his, her cool fingers on his wrist. "Did she throw herself at you?"

"In a manner of speaking." Draco won't allow himself to feel qualms about the lie. Pansy will be thrilled to have that sort of goss about a Weasley, and Ginny will understand. Perhaps. Then again, does it really matter? None of them trust him. Not really.

Pansy's fingernails scrape lightly across his skin as he pulls away, turning towards the Slytherin table. 

"Malfoy," Nott says with a speculative gleam in his eye, "Snape wants to speak with you."

Draco glances up at the Head Table. Severus is watching him over the rim of his silver goblet. Alecto Carrow is next to him; her cold eyes meet Draco's, and she smiles thinly, leaning over to say something to Severus. His fingers tighten on the stem of the goblet as he sets it down, still eyeing Draco, his displeasure evident.

Draco looks away.

Wolves are everywhere.

***

"You damned fool," Severus says, and spittle hits Draco's cheek. Draco stares ahead, looking out over the lake sparkling in the late winter moonlight. Spring will never come, he thinks. Not this year. The stone parapet is rough beneath his palms, and a cold wind ruffles his loose blond hair. He shivers and pulls his dressing gown tighter around his thin frame, wishing he had his crimson cloak, now hidden in the bottom his trunk beneath a woollen blanket to avoid the possibility of being called a Gryffindor-sympathizer by his idiotic housemates.

Draco can see the Astronomy Tower from here, tall and dark against the cloudless night sky. He doesn't like the tower any longer. It holds too many bitter memories. Too many reminders of how foolish and stupid he'd been--just like Harry'd told him. Two months Harry'd spent trying to get him to talk about what the Dark Lord had commanded him to do. Sometimes Draco wonders if he'd just been less bloody stubborn, less utterly terrified, if he'd just broken down and talked to Harry all those nights they'd spent rutting up against walls and on window seats in forgotten hallways, maybe Dumbledore might still be alive.

Harry always tells him to shut it, that Dumbledore had been dying anyway. Draco doesn't know if he believes him. He does know, however, that Harry blames Severus. No matter how many times Draco tries to tell him Severus was just protecting him. To Harry Severus will always be the double-crossing spy. The murderer. The traitor.

Draco hopes Harry's wrong. Severus knows far too much about them both.

Severus leans against the parapet wall, his back to the view. "You went to him. Again."

Draco doesn't deny it. Severus sighs and runs his hands over his face.

"I won't be able to protect you much longer," he says, and his voice is quiet. Weary. "If you insist on this idiocy with Potter--"

"It's not idiocy," Draco snaps. 

Severus glares at him. "You'll get yourself killed. Or him, and then where will we be, all of us?"

Draco looks away. He's thought of this. Often. 

"Let him go, Draco," Severus says, and he looks exhausted and worn. "It's for the best, for both of you. Do you honestly think that after this is all bloody over, you'll have a fairytale ending? You, a marked Death Eater with the Golden Boy of Gryffindor? In wizarding society, which still frowns upon individuals of your sexual persuasion?" He scowls at Draco. "The idealism of youth won't take you far when you encounter reality. Potter will go his way, to be lauded and feted by all, and you'll be lucky to find yourself outside Azkaban's walls."

He's right. Of course he is. Draco knows it. He's a Malfoy, his father's son; if he manages to make it through this war and his Lordship loses, he'll be a pariah to the rest of the wizarding world. Lucius made that damned certain when he'd publicly thrown his lot in with the Death Eaters. And if his Lordship wins...

Draco shudders. That's not a world he wants to live in any longer. He turns to face Severus. "I can't," he says, his voice catching.

"You can." Severus's hand is heavy on his shoulder. "And you will." His face is lined with an old grief. Draco doesn't know the whole story; he only knows that Severus once loved someone, that he caused that someone's death, and that he's never forgiven himself for it. He'd asked Mother once what she knew, and she'd only looked at him blankly and informed him that she'd never heard of such a thing. Draco knows it's true: Severus told him earlier this year, over a bottle of firewhisky in his new Headmaster quarters. Draco doesn't think he'd meant to, but it'd been Hallowe'en and, judging by the meagre amount of firewhisky left in the bottle, Severus had been drinking for most of the evening. 

The flickering lights in Hagrid's cottage across the grounds blink out. Draco's throat is tight and painful. "I don't want to," he says finally. It costs him to choke the words out. 

There's an unexpected gentleness to Severus's touch as he pulls Draco against his side. "Life often requires that of us which we do not want."

For a moment Draco wants to shove him away, to scream and shout and throw the raging tantrum he would have as a younger child. Instead he draws in a deep, steadying breath and nods. "I know," he says against his godfather's robe. It smells stale and musty, like the potions storeroom when it's just been opened. Draco wants to cling to that familiar scent, to breathe it in and to believe that this is all just a nightmare, that when he opens his eyes the past year and a half will be erased and he'll be back in his dormitory with nothing more dramatic on his mind than how he'll managed to thwart Potter today.

They stand silently for a moment, godfather and godson. Severus has been more of a father figure to Draco than Lucius Malfoy ever has. Draco's spent most of his life trying--and failing--to impress his father. Severus, however, has been there always, a quiet, slightly grim guide through the treacherous paths of adolescence. It was Severus Draco had gone to when he realised he was bent. It was Severus who'd steadied him with a highly whiskyed cuppa when Lucius had been sent to Azkaban at the end of his fifth year. It was Severus who'd counselled him through broken hearts and broken bones and broken hopes his entire life. Draco trusts him completely. 

"I'll end it," he says after a long moment. His heart splinters into shards.

***

When the next owl from Harry taps against his dormitory window, a tiny key wrapped in brown paper tied to its leg, Draco sends it away, note unopened.

The owl never returns.

***

Easter hols come. Draco spends them locked up, a prisoner in his family’s house. He wanders the halls late at night, pale and gaunt, keeping to the shadows to avoid the contemptuous glares and scornful smirks of his Lordship's inner circle as they pass by. He thinks, perhaps, if he'd only managed to do what was asked of him, to kill Dumbledore, his family wouldn't be hiding in their rooms, terrified of what the Dark Lord's wolves--both literal and figurative--might do to them for their failures. He realises that to be a pipe dream the night his Lordship casts Cruciatus on Narcissa merely for serving the wrong wine at dinner. The man's mad, he tells his mother as he wipes her face with a damp flannel once the Dark Lord's allowed him to pick her up from the floor of the dining room and carry her to her quarters. His father, coward that he is, stays at the table, dull-eyed and drunken, reaching for a new bottle from the trays the house elves levitate from the kitchens.

His mother doesn't disagree with him. She merely grips his wrist before he can pull away and begs him to be careful. She'll only rest when he promises he will. 

Draco doesn't speak to Severus the nights he's at table. Whereas before he would have sought his godfather out, desperate for comfort, now Draco looks away whenever Severus glances at him. He's angry with Severus, blames him for losing Harry, even though he knows he made the choice himself. He retires to his room as soon as he can, sitting on the window seat next to an open casement, his black and scarlet cloak wrapped around his shoulders as he smokes cigarette after cigarette nicked from the box in his father's study, orange-red sparks and grey ashes drifting out the window into a still cold breeze. He waits for a note he knows will never arrive.

***

The fire in the drawing room flickers as his mother throws the door open, casting its shadows along the deep purple wallpaper. Draco rises from his chair, setting aside the whisky he's sharing in silence with his half-drunken father.

"What is this?" his father drawls, lurching as he stands, and Draco's heart drops when he sees Granger and beyond her shoulder, the flash of Weasley's ginger hair beneath the lamplight. Snatchers surround them, broad and wolfish beside the icy grace of Draco's mother. 

"They say they have Potter," his mother says, her voice cold and blank. "Draco, come here."

Draco's heart stutters against his chest when Greyback pushes Harry forward. His filthy black hair is matted and tangled around his shoulders; his face is swollen and pink, barely recognisable. 

But Draco would know Harry's eyes anywhere, even as Harry looks away from him. Draco stops in front of him, and he wants so badly to reach out and touch that disfigured face, so much his Harry and yet so very, very different. 

"Well, Draco?" his father asks, and for the first time since Draco's been home for Easter hols he hears life in his father's voice. Eagerness, in fact. "Is it Harry Potter?"

Draco steps away, unable to take Greyback's stench any longer. His stomach turns; he can't look at Harry. He'll give himself away. "I can't--I can't be sure."

His father frowns at him. "But look at him carefully. Look!" Lucius grabs Draco's arm, his fingers tight and bruising as he hauls Draco back to stand in front of Harry. "If we're the ones who hand Potter over to the Dark Lord, everything will be forgiven--"

Greyback snarls, cutting Lucius off. "Now, we won't be forgetting who actually caught him, I hope, Mr Malfoy?"

Bile burns in Draco's throat, a thick sour tang of fear. He can feel the warm huff of Greyback's breath as the wolf argues with his father. Harry looks at Draco then, and there's a dull blankness in his eyes that makes Draco's heart ache. Harry thinks he'll turn him in, he can tell. Draco's gaze flits back to Granger and Weasley, both caught tight in the grimy, strong hands of the Snatchers. They look back at him grimly, their distrust evident. Whatever they've been through in recent weeks has taken its toll on them. 

His father's fingertips brush over Harry's forehead, pushing back his matted hair. Draco wants to scream at him, to slap his hand away from Harry's swollen skin, to claim Harry as his own, untouchable by anyone other than himself. 

"This could be the scar stretched tight," Lucius says, his fingertip sliding over a pink pucker. "Draco come here. Look properly. What do you think?"

It's Greyback this time who pulls Draco closer, his hand heavy on Draco's shoulder, long fingernails digging through Draco's robe and into his skin. Draco tries to meet Harry's gaze, tries to let him know he's nothing to fear. 

"I don't know," Draco says, and the lie hangs between him and his father. Lucius's eyes narrow at him, and Draco pulls away from Greyback and walks back towards the fireplace and his mother. It takes everything he has not to tremble.

He lies again to his father, his back to the lot of them, his eyes fixed on the fire. Perhaps that might be Granger. He doesn't know. He doesn't know if that's Weasley. Maybe. It could be. He reaches for the bottle of whisky on the mantel with unsteady hands. When his aunt sweeps into the drawing room, her eyes mad-bright the moment she sees Harry, Draco slips away, taking advantage of her histrionics to run through the corridors and back to his room.

The fire in the hearth has burnt down since morning. Draco drops beside it, stoking the embers with a cast-iron poker before grabbing a handful of Floo powder from the tin on the mantel. The small flames flicker green when he blows the powder into them.

"Hogwarts kitchens," he says, as quietly as he can, and when an elf appears in the flames, he asks for Dobby to be sent through. 

It takes a moment, and then the tiny elf is tumbling through his hearth, landing on the stones with a poof of soot and smoke. 

Dobby draws in on himself, looking around the room apprehensively. Draco doesn't blame him. He feels the same about the Manor now. "Master Draco--"

"Harry's downstairs," Draco says, and he takes a drink of whisky from the bottle to steady his nerves. "The Snatchers brought him in with Weasley and Granger. You have to help them. I can't. Do you understand?"

Dobby looks up at him with wide, dark eyes and nods. "Harry Potter is in danger."

"Very much so." Draco drags the back of his hand across his mouth. He wants to cry, wants to scream, wants to run downstairs and save Harry himself.

He's not brave enough. He knows that full well.

Dobby's hand settles over his, warm and webby. Draco remembers how gently Dobby had comforted him when he'd been a child, heartbroken and lonely in this huge house. "Dobby will help, Master Draco. Harry Potter will be safe." Dobby's long fingers squeeze Draco's, and for a moment Draco believes.

Before Draco can nod, Dobby's gone in a pop. 

Draco leans his head against the hearth and lets out a small sob. _Please,_ he prays to whatever deity might be listening. _Please keep him safe._ He raises his head and looks into the now-orange embers. "I love him," he whispers.

With a ragged sigh, Draco pulls himself together and stands. There are more wolves to face.

***

Aunt Bella screams and points her wand at Weasley.

"Expelliarmus," Harry shouts, just as Draco throws a Stupefy her way. It hits his father instead, and Lucius collapses next to the hearth. 

Draco's shaking. He'd come into the room to find Granger on the floor, his aunt laughing as she cast Cruciatus on the sobbing girl. He'd done what he could to stop Bella, but he hadn't expected Harry to storm upstairs with Weasley in tow. Perhaps he should have. Harry would never have left Granger behind, he knows that full well. But he'd hoped Dobby would have spirited him away, then come back for the others. Draco wants Harry out of his house, away from the wolves that bare their teeth at him even now. 

Aunt Bella lunges to the side, grabbing Granger before she can twist away. She presses a silver knife to Granger's throat. "Drop your wands," she snaps, and Harry glances at Draco before he complies, letting the wand he'd just taken from Bellatrix drop to the floor with a clatter. 

"Pick them up," Aunt Bella says to Draco, and he hesitates. "Now, boy. The Dark Lord is coming!"

Draco moves slowly towards Harry, catching his gaze and keeping it even as he stoops to gather the wands, pressing them against his own. He dips his head slightly towards them, then looks back at Harry. 

Harry's face is still, expressionless. Draco doesn't know if he understands what he's trying to tell him. _Take them, you fool._

But Harry doesn't move.

A noise from above catches Draco's attention. He looks up just as the chandelier loosens itself from its moorings and falls, crashing to the floor with a shatter of crystal against stone.

His aunt's cry echoes in his ears. Crystal shards strike his face, and he can feel the warm blood spill over his skin, stinging and sharp. 

And then Harry's on him, wrenching the wands from his hand. "Thank you," he whispers against Draco's ear, and Draco can feel the brush of Harry's mouth against his skin before he's gone, shouting to Weasley and Dobby, Granger clutched to his side.

Draco's left behind in the ruins of the drawing room, his parents and his aunt shouting at one another as the Dark Lord appears, his face thunderous.

It's almost a relief when the Cruciatus hits him, sending waves of pain shuddering through his body.

Draco gives in to the convulsions, and they pull him down into blessed blackness just before he falls to the floor.

His last thought is the hope that he might never wake.

***

After that the world is only silence, and fear.

Severus brings him back to Hogwarts. "You shouldn't have helped him," he says as he deposits Draco's bag on his bed in the Slytherin dungeons. The look he gives Draco is weary and grave. "His Lordship suspects."

"What else could I do?" Draco sits on his trunk at the end of the bed. His body aches. The Dark Lord wasn't sparing in his punishment. Draco'd taken it grimly, almost welcoming the pain. Better him than his mother, he thinks, even if his bones throb deep into the night.

Severus just looks away. He knows the answer to that. Harry's their only hope. His safety above all others. "Be careful, Draco," Severus says finally, and he's gone in a swirl and a swish of black wool and velvet.

In his dormitory Draco huddles alone in his cloak at night, which he keeps hidden under his pillow during the day. When he closes his eyes, he can pretend the blood red fabric smells of Harry’s warmth and forest leaves and freedom. 

The wolves circle round.

***

When it is all over, after the last night of fire and ashes and curses, after the terror and the utter devastation, after Severus dies, after Harry faces down evil incarnate and finally wins, Draco's wand in his hand, Draco leaves Hogwarts in silence with his parents to await their fate in the ghost-like halls of the Manor.

One night in late June his mother comes into his room and sees the red cloak wrapped around him, redder than the lipstick staining her thin mouth. She kneels beside his chair, her fingers brushing the soft folds of the cloak. “They asked, you know. Your grandmother’s been dead for years.”

Draco blanches, looking up, realising his mother must have known everything. “Mother...”

“I told them you went to her grave. They seemed satisfied.” Narcissa Malfoy eyes her progeny. She hesitates, then she touches Draco's face. Her fingers are warm and gentle. “You should go to him, when you can.”

They're under house arrest and guarded by a forest of red cloaks, Aurors who are there to protect them from the dark that swirls around them more than to prevent them from escaping.

Draco waits. There's no escape.

***

A month later he receives the letter smelling of leaves and the woods, from hands of the Head Auror himself. Tucked between the folds of the paper is a small key.

The letter says only, “Meet me at noon. Always, your Nan.” The handwriting, as always, is near illegible. Draco chokes back a raw laugh, wiping his thumb across his suddenly wet eye. Harry's always been an idiot and overfond of crude jokes.

He looks up into the face of Kingsley Shacklebolt, who coughs and glances away. “You have time,” Shacklebolt says simply.

“Please tell my mother,” Draco says. He doesn't want her to worry. He's not entirely certain he's coming back. 

Draco wraps himself in the red cloak, even though he wears linen beneath it on account of the summer heat. He holds the key at the appointed time and suddenly a twist begins in his body, like a hook below his navel, and then he's standing in the grassy green of the summery, flowery woods.

The Forest of Dean looks different in the daylight. Different in the warmth. He takes a step away from the dark depths of the trees. The ground is soft and springy beneath his boots. Hope rises in his heart, as does fear. He doesn't know what to expect. He doesn't know what he wants to have happen.

A brook babbles as he walks across the green-gold shining clearing to the small cottage at the far side, whose front is covered in summer roses. The half door is open at the top, and Draco can hear music from the WWN, faint and soft. Celestina Warbeck, he thinks. His mother's favourite.

Stopping at the latch, Draco waits, looking into the cool shadows.

“Who’s there?” comes the soft, rich voice from dark, beyond Draco’s vision.

“It’s me,” Draco says. He hesitates. "If you'll have me."

A laugh answers him. “Raise the latch and come in then.”

Draco opens the bottom half of the door and walks into the cool of the little room. Harry’s arm is around his waist and his other hand is on his jaw, tilting his lips for a rough, eager, thorough round of kisses.

“What strong arms you have, Grandmother,” Draco says, when he can speak again. He can smell the heady scent of the roses that drifts in through the open window. A bird sings in one of the trees outside, a bright happy trill.

Harry laughs and kisses him again. “Just call me Harry.”

Draco lets his fingers stroke along Harry's jaw. There's a stubble there and a strength that Draco doesn't entirely recognise. Hot tears prick his eyes. He buries his face in the curve of Harry's neck, his hands dropping down to grip Harry's hips. "I thought I'd lost you," he says into his warm skin.

"No." Harry's thumb traces small circles around the nape of Draco's neck. "Never."

Draco draws in a ragged breath. "I love you." He feels open and bare now, and that terrifies him, but the words need to be said. 

"I know." Harry pulls back and looks at him. His eyes are warm and bright green behind the glint of his glasses. "I love you." He quirks his head to one side, studying Draco, then says, "I think I have for quite a while."

Draco nods. "I never wanted to send Hedwig away. Severus said--"

Harry stops him with another kiss. "Severus was wrong," he says against Draco's mouth.

As much as it hurts, Draco knows he's right. Severus had known love, but it had warped him, made him bitter and wary. Draco doesn't want to be like that. He twists his hands in the cotton of Harry's shirt. He doesn't want to lose him again. Not now, at least. The wolves are at bay after all these years, and Draco needs Harry. He's fairly certain he always has. He reaches up to loosen the clasp of the red cloak. It slips from his shoulders in a whisper of wool, puddling around their feet. 

“Take me to bed," he says, his voice cracking only slightly.

With a slow, wolfish smile, Harry does.


End file.
